


Cross Connections

by nonelvis



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonelvis/pseuds/nonelvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The duplicate Doctor, Romana and the Master all have a bone to pick with the Doctor. Now, if they could only get that dimension cannon working again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross Connections

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy cracky thing written for [**magicallaw**](http://magicallaw.livejournal.com/) as part of the [**bluesuit_fic**](http://community.livejournal.com/bluesuit_fic/) ficathon.

Two more minutes. That's all the time the Master needs to send one last message to his faithful followers:

> **_sockington_**_   SOCKS ARMY ALERT: NEED RAW TUNA, CATNIP AND WEAPONS-GRADE PLUTON–_

 

The computer makes a disconcerting popping sound, its screen fizzling into darkness.

"I think you've hit a new low," the Doctor says, a power cable dangling from his hand. "Mind control via a cat's Twitter stream, that's to be expected. Finding you crouched in a basement, using Windows 98 and living off cheesy Doritos like some common hacker – now, that's just pathetic."

The Master shoves the last few Doritos into his mouth and crumples up the bag. "You're probably wondering how I survived," he says, licking orange powder from his fingertips.

"The same way you always do, I imagine," the Doctor replies. "Possession, coercion, and more than your share of good luck."

"You forgot 'meticulous planning' and 'unparalleled genius.'"

"Didn't want you to get a swelled head."

"It isn't arrogance if you're really that good. And I really am that good. As you know."

"Were your double entendres always _quite_ so obvious, or are you just desperate?"

The Master snorts. "Desperate? For you? Oh, Doctor, your narcissism would be charming if it weren't so tiresome."

"We're the only ones left. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Only that you're still around to stick your offensively half-human nose where it doesn't belong." The Master sticks out his arms and pulls his cuffs back from his wrists. "Come on, I'm sure you're dying to handcuff me."

"You'd only enjoy it." The Doctor grabs the Master by the shoulder and pushes him towards the door.

"... of course if you bring me in," the Master continues, "I won't bother telling you about that void ship that slipped through one of the cracks in the universe your girlfriend conveniently left for me to exploit."

The Doctor stops dead. "Void ship?"

"Imprinted with the seal of Rassilon," the Master says, peering down at his hand. He holds up a little finger still stained with faux cheese powder. "Want a taste?"

His old foe manages to resist temptation, but the Master notes a slight shift in the Doctor's breathing. Half-human or not, this model of Doctor promises to be just as diverting as the other ones.

* * *

 

The sphere is bang in the middle of a forest bang in the middle of a part of central Wales that feels like it's bang in the middle of nowhere. It's a stunningly tedious drive during which the Master entertains himself by needling the Doctor about having bought him the wrong flavour of Doritos.

"Honestly, you take me for a romantic hike in the woods, the least you can do is bring my favourite foods. Helps put me in the mood."

The Doctor ignores him, bushwhacking a trail through the forest until they reach what the sonic tells them is nothing, nowhere, nowhen. There, nestled atop a couple of downed trees and the flat and desiccated remains of something small and fuzzy, is a bronze and matte-finished sphere inscribed with the familiar Time Lord insignia.

The Doctor whirls on the Master. "Why did you leave this here? You wondered where we'd all gone – we could be here, now, and you just stranded us in this thing!"

The Master shrugs. "I had my reasons."

But the Doctor has already left him behind in favour of the sphere, his hand lingering above the dark metallic curlicues. Probably weighing fifteen different arguments for and against touching the sphere, questioning his right to open it, pondering what he'll do if it contains another of his old enemies, and generally being a colossal bore.

At last, the Doctor presses his palm to the seal, and a hidden door wedges open to reveal a slim figure in red robes.

"Ro-," the Doctor begins, and then Romana smacks him.

"Now you know why I didn't open it," the Master says.

* * *

 

They decide to discuss things at the nearest pub, and not just because the Master keeps complaining about the distinct lack of salty carbohydrates in his life. Romana, locked in stasis in her escape pod, hasn't eaten in years, and the Doctor mutters something about bloody well needing a drink if he's going to deal with the two of them.

"You blew us all to bits," Romana hisses at the Doctor between sips of lager. "We had a plan. Luring the Daleks close enough to Gallifrey so we could destroy them. But you went off on your own as usual, ignoring my orders ..."

"_What_ orders?" he exclaims. "You told me to wait for your signal, and that if it didn't come ..."

"I couldn't get through! The Master had orders to contact you if ..."

She rounds on the Master, who's draining the last of his beer.

"What?" he says.

"I wonder," Romana begins. "Would it be more satisfying to throttle you with your dreadfully ordinary tie, or should I ask the barman for something sharp and rusty? Frankly, I think Leela would have appreciated the latter option."

"Don't be silly." The Master smirks at her. "You'll need my help repopulating the species."

Later, rubbing his sore cheek while Romana continues her tirade, he wonders if the slap counts as foreplay.

* * *

 

"You were a hand. In a jar." Romana flips the Doctor's right hand from side to side, holding it up to her face to observe it more closely, even though after the prodigious number of beers she's consumed she's no hope of focussing on anything. "Only you could regenerate from a hand in a jar, Doctor."

"Half-human," sniffs the Master. "Disgusting."

The Doctor cocks an eyebrow at him, or tries to, anyway, not being much better off than Romana in the sobriety department. "You were the one married to a human, as I recall."

"I didn't say I wouldn't _fuck_ them. Reproduction, on the other hand ..."

"_Hand_," giggles Romana, half-slumped in her seat. "You're a _hand!_"

"What I _am_ is about to cut you off. Honestly, lock you away in the Void for a few years, you lose all tolerance for alcohol."

"Nonsense," Romana says, gathering the folds of her robe with dignity and nearly knocking over a pint glass in the process. "And to prove it, I shall fetch us three more ... drinky things."

* * *

 

"The Doctor," Romana mumbles. "Blows us all up and goes gallivanting around the universe, as usual."

"I ..." the Doctor starts, but the Master cuts him off.

"Convinces some bint you aren't even shagging to talk you up until your precious humans can use my own satellite network against me. That planet was _mine_."

"It most certainly was _not_ –"

"_And_ you destroyed my beautiful paradox machine –"

"– which was my TARDIS –"

"_And then_ you thought you could just keep me with you, like some kind of pet! Though I must say, I really enjoyed watching you cry like a little girl. Truly a heartwarming sight."

The Doctor throws up his hands in disgust. "Fine. I've – no, _he's_ – made a hash of things. We aren't the same person anymore, you know. And besides, didn't it occur to you that I might have a bone to pick with him myself? Dumping me here without the TARDIS – punishing me for doing what he was too afraid to do himself –"

"I can imagine sticking you with the cute blonde was a terrible hardship," says the Master.

"It is when she's in love with someone else. And human life – it's so linear. So _normal_. Only half of me is capable of dealing with that."

"Maybe I could reconf ... reconfigulate ... no, that's not the word ... _reconfigure_ the pod controls," Romana says. "Blast a hole in the universe ... tell him in person why we're very, very, very" – she wags her finger at the Doctor – "_very_ disappointed in his behaviour."

"That's it!" the Doctor cries. "Blasting a hole in the universe! Oh, I've just the thing for that."

The Master slides his hand along the Doctor's knee. "Tell me more."

"That cannon Rose used to cross dimensions. Mind you, it needs loads of work before it's safe to use again. Can't believe they used it in the first place, but there you go: humans. Absolutely brilliant sometimes, even when they're being dangerously stupid ..."

Somehow through this monologue, the Doctor hasn't pushed away the Master's hand. The Master presses his luck, sliding his thumb farther along the Doctor's inner thigh.

"We'd need Romana's help," the Doctor continues, and turns towards the other Time Lord.

Romana has collapsed on the table, her head propped on one arm, a tendril of blonde hair languishing in a small puddle of beer. She lets out a single dainty snore.

"I'll take that as a yes," the Doctor says. The Master just smiles and squeezes the Doctor's thigh.

* * *

 

They are all far, far too drunk to drive back to London, and end up paying for the nearest thing in the village that passes for a hotel. The room above the pub has two tiny single beds with a threadbare strip of shag carpet between them that might have been forest green at some point in the past but has since decayed into dingy olive. Romana stumbles to the nearest bed and curls into a ball, while the Master flops onto the other bed and, despite his best attempts to drag the Doctor along with him, is asleep and snoring not long afterwards.

He awakens in the middle of the night, headachey and cotton-mouthed and wondering where, exactly, the Doctor is sleeping, since disappointingly, he isn't sharing the bed. Surely he wouldn't have thrown over his oldest friend ... lover ... enemy – quite a list, really, when the Master considers it – for yet another attractive blonde?

But no, there on the floor between the beds is the Doctor, wrapped in a thin blanket and breathing the long, deep breaths of the truly drunk.

The Master contemplates which part of the Doctor's body it would be most advantageous to leave a hickey on for that girlfriend of his to find, but passes out again before he can decide.

* * *

 

The Torchwood-owned flat the Doctor procures for the Master and Romana is far less palatial than what the Master enjoyed on the Valiant, but at least it's several steps above the basement he'd been squatting in while sockpuppeting as a cat. More important, there's a widescreen, flat-panel television mounted to the wall. The Master claims the full length of one of the couches and starts channel-surfing, pausing at a Japanese competition with contestants making their way through a ludicrously complicated obstacle course. A favourite of his, though he always feels they could do with a nice pit and some sharpened stakes. Something classic.

"You can't seriously expect me to live with him," Romana says to the Doctor.

The Master leers at her and pats the cushions. "Plenty of room next to me."

"I don't think it would be a good idea for you to stay with me and Rose," the Doctor says.

"Ah," Romana replies. "You haven't told her about us."

"What makes you say that?"

"This Torchwood of yours would probably be very interested in acquiring two more Time Lords," Romana says. "Also, in case you've forgotten, I am not an idiot."

The Master calls out from his perch on the couch. "Come along, darling. Time to begin the repopulation project."

Romana narrows her eyes at the Doctor. "You're carrying the first-born, just so you know."

* * *

 

"This power source is completely inadequate; the Heisenberg compensation interface, if you can even dignify this pile of junk with that name, is barely adjusting for the lowest levels of electron spin exchange; and I believe the targeting system was designed by someone exceptionally stupid," Romana says, frowning at the dimension cannon. "You say these people used this to travel across dimensions? Without being blown to bits?"

"Apparently," says the Doctor. "Well, Rose survived. Can't vouch for anyone else."

Romana sighs and begins ripping out wiring, handing fistfuls of multicoloured cabling to the Master. "Turn these into something useful."

"A noose?" the Master responds.

Romana stops what she's doing, puts her hands on her hips, and smiles at the two men. "Certainly, but for which one of you?"

* * *

 

They set two simple ground rules. The first: if anyone asks, the Master and Romana are ordinary technicians cleaning the cannon in preparation for permanent storage. The second: the Master is never, ever to be left alone.

"You don't trust me," he pouts.

"And you've earned that trust _how_, exactly?" the Doctor replies.

"We have the same goal: revenge. Sweet, delicious, brutal, _bloody_ revenge."

"Careful, big boy. We're not going to murder him. Some harsh words, perhaps. Potentially some intense mockery when we leave him behind on a planet to fend for himself without the ship he lo– ... that ship of his."

"So unambitious. We could make him our slave, you know." The Master removes a badly threaded bolt from the machine and lubricates it with a couple of drops of oil he notes is not entirely toxic to human skin. "You've enjoyed that sort of thing before."

The Doctor snorts and continues reassembling one of the cannon's power storage units. "Back to work," he says.

But he doesn't complain when the Master presses him against the wall, pulls down the Doctor's trousers and goes to work in an entirely different way.

* * *

 

"Don't mind me," Romana says when she arrives for her shift.

The Doctor and the Master make sure it takes her a while to get to her repairs.

* * *

 

"I still haven't forgiven you for blowing us all up," Romana says dreamily afterwards, her hand skimming the Doctor's bare chest.

"And I'm still going to have some fun with him when we get back to the other universe," the Master adds as his foot traces the length of the Doctor's calf. "You can help if you like. It'll be kinky."

"I should make him come back here for Rose," the Doctor says softly. "Or at least say goodbye properly. Somewhere that isn't a beach."

"We're not going to make him do anything unless we fix the cannon," Romana points out.

"I think that can wait a bit longer," says the Doctor. "Master?"

"Definitely," the Master replies.

It isn't the most productive day for repairs they've had so far, but none of them seems to mind.

* * *

 

Eight days later, the Doctor solders the last circuit, Romana triple-checks the connections, and the cannon is ready to go.

"Finally," the Master says, "we can give that supercilious bastard what's coming to him."

"And well-deserved it is, too," Romana adds. "Doctor, are you ready?"

The Doctor takes a deep breath and a last look around the room. "Ready," he says, and activates the sonic screwdriver.

Nothing happens.

He presses the sonic's button again. The cannon sits there like an giant, overengineered paperweight.

"I don't understand," the Doctor says. "This should have worked. We checked everything."

"Except whether any of the fuses had burnt out," says a voice, and there, lounging in the doorway, is Rose Tyler.

* * *

 

Of course the Doctor's latest human pet _would_ show up to interrupt things. It's as if he trains them to know the worst possible moment to arrive. Honestly, the least this one could have done would have been to show up while the Master had the Doctor in a compromising position – it would still have been awful timing, but then the Master might have had the pleasure of watching the girl wallop the hell out of their mutual lover.

No such luck. Instead, Rose seems depressingly unflustered.

"I had CCTV put in this room after he left us on the beach," she says to the Doctor. "I figured you might try to fix the cannon, and we could go travelling again. But you and me, it's never been quite right ... and then I saw you and him – and you and him and her –"

"I'm sorry, Rose," replies the Doctor. "I never meant to hurt you."

"It's okay. Like I said, you and me – just not working, is it? You're not meant to be in one place, and I've been thinking about finally settling down, even if I keep on protecting the Earth and fighting aliens every now and then. And I had the right man for the job ... but he's not here anymore."

"I knew it," the Doctor sighs. "You're leaving me for him."

"No, you idiot," Rose says. "I'm leaving you for Mickey. I love you, Doctor, I really do, but I can't live with you, and you should be with them." She gestures at Romana and the Master.

"So back to the other universe it is," she finishes, and extracts a fuse from the underside of the cannon, replacing it with one from her pocket. "Come on, you leave the man of my dreams in an alternate universe, you _know_ I'm going back for him."

The Doctor picks her up, swings her around in a circle, and kisses her hard. It would be enough to make the Master jealous if he didn't already have plans for celebrating their first TARDIS flight with the cat o' nine tails he made with the cabling Romana gave him.

"Okay, then," the Doctor says. "Romana? Are we ready?"

"The coordinates are all set. Trafalgar Square, London, England, 2010. Unless you'd rather go back to Paris?"

"Later, after we've found the Doctor and nicked the TARDIS."

"I'm _really_ enjoying this evil side of you," the Master says. "It's giving me all sorts of naughty ideas."

"Which will also have to wait until later," the Doctor says, winking.

Rose takes his right hand, Romana his left. The Master takes Romana's other hand.

"Ready, then?" the Doctor asks.

And this time, when he thumbs the sonic, everything works.


End file.
